Tightrope
by jenron12
Summary: "Sometimes it feels like she's suffocating – like the walls are collapsing on all sides. There's an ache in her chest she isn't brave enough to name, and the sight of that gold band on her fourth finger threatens to make the tears fall again because it's nothing but a perfectly circular lie." One shot, told from Gillian's POV. Cal / Gill, set in season 1.


**A/N**: I know, I know - I have 2 other multi-chapter fics that really need updating. In my defense, though, I'll tell you **1**-That the next chapter of Home is halfway finished, and **2**-That my muse is *really* struggling to write anything that isn't swimming in angst and sadness right now. She's not cooperating, guys. I'm trying, but... sigh. The words aren't coming together as easily as I would like.

Now. This story practically wrote itself. It's as if Gillian crawled inside my brain a few days ago and poked around until I typed this up, angst &amp; all. My best guess is that it's set sometime late in season 1, and I really hope you enjoy it. I won't lie, here, and I know for a fact that (at least) two of you will spot just how personal this one is - and while I do expect to finish the next chapter of Home within the week, I had to write this first. For my own sanity. And because Gillian made me.

Thank you for reading!

* * *

She drags the back of her hand across one damp cheek and curses herself for crying again. For caring too much. For daring to believe that love would be enough this time, because it _isn't_.

It just…

Isn't.

He doesn't look at her when she speaks, and he keeps secrets that he knows she can see – and they live like strangers, now. They have separate beds, goals, dreams, hopes… separate everything, really.

Which hurts like hell.

"_You alright, love? Because I can stay. Here. With you. I'm happy to stay, if you'd like."_

He'd probably laugh at the sight of her, too – with her rumpled dress and her messy hair, and with smears of black mascara beneath both eyes. She's shrouded in navy hues and haunted by broken promises, and she's so damned sick of being the responsible, practical, _good_ little Gillian that she wants to scream. To fight. To thrash against conventionality and prove everyone wrong.

But she's alone.

Yet again.

Which means that "everyone" isn't a very big audience.

"_I'm fine, Cal. Really. You should go home, okay? Get some rest. It's late. Emily's probably starting to get worried, and the last thing I want is to keep you from…"_

Sometimes it feels like she's suffocating – like the walls are collapsing on all sides. There's an ache in her chest she isn't brave enough to name, and the sight of that gold band on her fourth finger threatens to make the tears fall again because it's nothing but a perfectly circular lie. A symbol. A souvenir from a life she no longer recognizes, save for a few memories that hang suspended in the shadows.

She's tired of the lie, tired of feeling like someone's second choice, tired of fantasizing that in another time and place, things might've been so very, very different. And she isn't used to needing anyone as badly as she needs…

"_Emily is with her mum tonight, Gill. And the last thing _I_ want is to stand here like a blind man, while we both pretend I can't see the sadness that's written all over your face."_

The timing is terrible. A double-edged sword guards the perimeter of their precarious line, and it watches them tiptoe around invisible landmines day after day. Back then, it seemed like such a good idea – like a safeguard, of sorts, to keep them from getting too close. Too personal. Too… connected. As if they ever had any real choice in the matter.

_Now_, though, she knows otherwise. Propriety isn't Cal's strong suit, and they're both stubborn to a fault – and sooner or later, something has to give. It's fight _or_ flight. Truth _or_ happiness.

Not both.

"_I just need…"_

Never both.

"_Say the word and it's yours, yeah? Simple as that."_

Which also hurts like hell.

"_I just need some time."_

* * *

She drives.

Welcomes the darkness.

Tries to forget the gentle curl of his hand around her wrist… the warmth of his palm on her shoulder… the slow nod of acceptance that came when she gave the answer he didn't want to hear, and the smile that didn't reach his eyes as he turned to walk away.

"_Door's always open, though - day or night. And I'll be on my cell if you need me."_

How many times has she spoken those very same words to him, anyway?

Worn the same smile?

Bandaged invisible wounds, smoothed her hand across scarred skin, and drowned difficult truths behind fingers of scotch before they ever made it past her lips?

The silence feels overwhelming, and it's getting harder and harder to ignore the thoughts in her head. To do the smart thing. To remember where she is, and what she needs to do, and _not_ to throw her painfully perfect ring right out the window.

Just for the record? She isn't made of glass. She will not break... she detests the pedestal that everyone tries to force her to stand upon... and she's tired of feeling like her entire life is nothing but one big lie. It's truth _or_ happiness – not both. And as pathetic as it all makes her feel, sometimes pretending is easier than watching the walls crash down, or facing a truth that isn't yet ready to see the light of day.

"_And Gill? 'Time' is all well and good… but so are friends. Friends are good, too. So please don't think that you have to be – "_

She reaches blindly for the knob, and turns the up the volume until the thump of the bass and the cadence of the lyrics start to drown out the sound of his accent inside her head. The steering wheel vibrates against her palms, and she squeezes the leather – relishes the bite of her nails in the soft cover, as her muscles instinctively tense in time to the drummer's command.

Fatigue is ever-present. It feels like she hasn't slept in days, and she laughs aloud as she realizes that chords and chaos have brought her here: to momentary peace, somehow. The mirrors are trembling, and her body moves with the rhythm, and although she should probably hate it – she's not a fan of this style at all – somehow, it's the calmest she's been all day.

"_Alone, right… I know. But thank you for saying it anyway."_

She breathes deeply, drawing a lungful of air in through her nose and pushing it out through slack lips, as the traffic slows to a crawl. The streets are crowded, and the endless stream of headlights comes and goes in all directions. She catches flashes of happiness through storefront windows… sees couples walking and in hand, with their semi-genuine smiles and their poorly-hidden secrets… and she wonders when, exactly, she started becoming so cynical.

…and when her priorities began to change.

They're all very good at making excuses, you know. Alec tells her that their marriage feels nothing like love and everything like work, and Cal tells her that their work would mean nothing if she weren't there to share it with him. And all the while, there she stands: caught in the crosshairs. _Seeing_ and _feeling_ and _hearing_ how backwards that is, but stubbornly pretending that she doesn't want –

There's that word again, though. Pretending.

And she doesn't dare stop doing it now.

She makes excuses and turns blind eyes, and she tells herself that as long as she's careful – as long as she's smart – then the line will keep them all safe. Which is ridiculous, she knows, because they're human. They _feel_. Hearts cannot be governed by logic, and instinct doesn't play by manmade rules. Sooner or later, the dam will break. The line will bend. And the truth she's trying so hard to hide will be written all over her face.

* * *

She doesn't want to call.

She doesn't want to admit _where_ she's going or _what_ she's doing until it can no longer be denied. Until she can't change her mind. Until she sees him, glasses predictably in place and apron tied atop dark clothes, peeking around the curtain to where she's parked. In his driveway. Because nowhere else feels like home.

She really ought to be ashamed of herself. She's playing with fire, and someone is likely to be burned… and the sense of safety that always seems to emanate from his personal, private, 'the-door-is-always-open' space both scares and intrigues her.

The stereo is still pounding, and he can probably hear it from inside the house. He's probably wondering why she hasn't killed the engine yet, and why she isn't getting out of the damned car. Why she's stalling. Why she's suddenly acting just as stubborn as he does.

But mostly?

Knowing Cal, he's probably wondering why she finds it easier to cry in the shadows than to lean on the shoulder of her very best friend.

She palms her cell phone, testing its weight in her hand as her fingertips trace his name. They glide over the _A_ and curl around the _L_, and she smiles. He is not a patient man. He is _not_ a patient man, and yet… there he stands. Behind the curtain. Silhouetted by lamplight, as he waits for her decision. And surely he can see her, too – holding that phone like a lifeline, and looking like a total mess.

Which means that he's decided to be patient _now_.

When it counts.

For _her_.

She stuffs the keys into her bag and doesn't even bother with fixing her face, or with pretending not to cry – they're pretty much past all of that, now. She's too tired to care about pretense, and she's too sad to tolerate games… and she just wants someone to tell her that they understand. That they _hear_ her. That she's strong enough to handle this, and that she isn't a fool.

She wants…

He opens the door just as she raises her hand to knock upon it, and then he steps back with a small smile. His glasses are slightly crooked, and his apron is stained with red sauce. His hair is still wet from the shower, and his feet are bare. He's comfortable, and safe, and relaxed, and _real_ – solid, awkward, imperfect, and exactly what she needs.

"Day or night, Gill," he says softly, as he takes her by the hand and leads her inside.

…_she wants…_

There's no pressure. No expectations. He doesn't mention her red eyes, and he doesn't ask about the horribly loud music. He lets go of her hand and wraps one arm around her shoulder, pulling her into his side just as tightly as she'll fit – and he's very… warm. He smells good, and he's clean-shaven for the first time in days, and she wonders if he's even aware that they've switched roles. That _she's_ a mess, while he's the sane one. That _he's_ saving her now, rather than the other way around.

"I made dinner," he offers. Just like that. Like it's perfectly normal to be standing there with her, in his kitchen, with all of their defenses shot to hell, and with her heart in tatters on her sleeve. And he takes two plates out of the cabinet, grabs _two_ beers from the fridge... wastes no time at all before taking a humongous mouthful of whatever constitutes dinner at chez Lightman on a random Thursday night, and then begins to chew in earnest before she even manages to sit down.

The beer is her favorite brand – not his. In fact, he barely even tolerates the stuff, yet he always buys it. For her. Just in case. She keeps scotch in her liquor cabinet, and he keeps chocolate in his desk drawer; _her_ beer is in his refrigerator, and _his_ beans are in her pantry, and it's all so damned crazy that she starts to laugh. In earnest. She settles beside him and drops her hand on his arm – and just like that? The answer hits her like a ton of bricks.

Because it's _this_.

She wants **this**_**.**_

_With him._

Pretending that she doesn't is nothing but a big, fat lie... and besides, sooner or later? She knows that he'll be able to spot the truth from a mile away.

* * *

FIN


End file.
